O’Malley: Take her. Get her out of here. And for God’s sake, someone call her mother.
Deputy Reynolds: What’s that?
O’Malley: Nothing.
Deputy Reynolds: Lee. You just put something in your pocket.
O’Malley: No, I didn’t.
Deputy Reynolds: Lee. I—
O’Malley: No. I didn’t. Now let’s go figure out when the hell SWAT is gonna arrive. Otherwise it’ll take a miracle to get everyone safely out of the bank.
— 30 —
The Pool
Two Months Ago
When Iris and I start dating, we keep it secret. I feel guilty that I’m relieved she’s not ready to be out to her mom, because I know hiding is hard. But not telling anyone makes things so much easier for me. It surrounds us in this little bubble that I don’t want to pop with the real world.
I’ve been living in a world of truth with Wes and Lee for years now, and when I have to close shut doors I’ve flung open, it hurts. I’m delaying the inevitable with Wes by not telling him about Iris, and lying to Lee about certain things is just the way it is, but Iris is . . .
I have a blank slate with her, and the last time I had that, it was with Wes. I filled it with lies and thought they were written in permanent ink, but really, they were chalk, and they wore away as love and safety worked me free of them. Wes saw through them.
Iris will see through me. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But she’ll figure it out unless I figure out how to tell.
Her ponytail is silk against my arm, her head resting on my stomach. It pleases me more than I can say, getting to play with her hair. I thought it might remind me of the fall and the swing of blond against my back, the heat of it in the summer, my mother’s hands weaving it into each girl’s hairstyle, but it’s different when it’s not mine. Iris’s hair smells like jasmine, like the bush that’s in front of our mailbox that only blooms at night, and it reminds me of the place it took me forever to think of as home.
“Your phone’s buzzing,” she tells me, and then she reaches over to grab it from the desk set next to her bed. I take it, and see that it’s Terry calling.
Terrance Emerson the Third is Wes’s best guy friend since kindergarten and the heir to an almond empire. He’s sweet to the point of gullible, he’s stoned most of the time, and he gets into trouble constantly but never stays in trouble because of the whole heir-to-an-almond-empire thing. He’d be the easiest mark in the world, like taking candy from a very rich, very sleepy baby, but Wes loves him and he’s a good guy—fun if you guard your junk food around him.
“Terry? What’s up?”
“Nora? Oh thank God,” Terry says. “You’ve gotta come.”
“What’s wrong?”
Iris sits up at my question.
“Wes is high. He can’t go home like this.”
“What?” Now I straighten up, and Iris mouths, What’s wrong? I hold up a finger. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t dose him, if that’s what you’re implying!” Terry says, all wounded.
“Terry . . .” I grit my teeth.
“Okay, it is kind of my fault because I had a bunch of cookies in a bag and they weren’t marked.”
“He ate pot cookies? Oh, shit.” I start to button up my shirt. “How many?”
“He went through half the bag before I got back upstairs.”
“Terry!”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry, but—” Is that off-key singing in the background? Probably. Wes gets very emotional and melodic when he’s stoned.
“You know what happened last time.” I want it to come out as an admonishment, but it’s strangled, too thick with the memory.
“That’s why I called you,” he says earnestly. “I can’t keep him here—when my parents come home and he’s like this, it’ll get back to the mayor.”
“Just keep him in your room until I get there.”
I hang up and Iris looks at me expectantly.
“I’m really sorry,” I say. “I have to go.”
“Is Wes okay?”
“How did you know I was talking about Wes?”
She arches an eyebrow. “I don’t mean this in a bad way, but who else would it be? You don’t really hang out with anyone else.”
“I hang out with you.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’ve never been the kind of person to have a ton of friends,” I say, trying to make it breezy, but she stares at me in that perceptive way of hers.